The Man Behind The Curtain
by fac-me-cocleario-vomere
Summary: What if Sherlock really was a fraud? What if the man with the brilliant mind was actually Watson? Set in the three-year gap with the Hetalia cast. Angstyish fluff, USUK.
1. Chapter 1

_January 15__th__, 2009_

_London, England_

"Look up"

Alfred's voice cracks over the phone. Arthur looks up.

Alfred is standing on the edge of the building, coat billowing in the wind, looking for all the world like an angel about to depart for the next world. And stupidly, because he knows, knows _exactly _what is about to happen, Arthur asks him, "What are you _doing_?"

"Isn't that what people do?" Alfred asks him in return, and Arthur can hear the sad smile in his voice. "Leave a note?"

And in that instant, Arthur realises that he has become complacent, that living with Alfred has blinded him to his faults, has dulled his intuition. _I saw this coming,_ he thinks to himself as Alfred falls off of the building and lands behind a truck, _but I did not observe_.


	2. Chapter 2

_May 15__th__, 2009_

_Being an excerpt from the memoirs of the most esteemed A. Kirkland, M.D._

People are funny things. Always dashing about, absorbed in their own little dramas, never taking any notice of the things around them, yet they still claim to be genii, professionals, _masters of observation._ And yet.

So many things go unobserved, uncomprehended, or flat-out ignored.

Including (and _especially_) those who do the leg-work.

No-one _ever_ notices the men behind the scenes.

I suppose that was what made it so easy to pull off such a trick, to fake the brilliance of the man known as Alfred F. Jones.

Not that the man _wasn't_ brilliant, oh no, he was a very smart individual indeed. He was not, however, the genius the media made him out to be. My Alfred was certainly a brilliant man, but he was a man of _science_, a man of cold, hard facts. And that was where I came in. I, with my literary upbringing and my solitary childhood, had the ability to delve into the deepest corners of the human mind, to manipulate them to any extent I chose. We were, to all intents and purposes, complete opposites- two people whose paths would never even _dream_ of crossing, if it weren't for an old classmate (read: _subordinate_) of mine who was inclined to meddle.

Upon meeting and subsequently getting to know each other, we discovered that we both had something the other wanted- he his shot at fame and glory, and I a chance to exercise my skills whilst remaining completely anonymous. So we became roommates, and donned our façades. They were, to a certain extent, the complete opposites of our true natures, not unlike the stereotypical theatre symbol of two masks. He became heartless and insensitive, a man of ice, whilst I played the friendly dullard, only kept around for my worth as a blogger.

He was the man in the spotlight, the media's golden boy, the name on everyone's lips. And I was the go-fer, the one who ran around dark alleyways collecting information, the one who _talked to people._ The one who extracted information from those who would not talk, the one who learned people's secrets without them ever realising.

Come to think of it, I would have made an _excellent_ criminal. Pity Ivan went and killed himself. The havoc we could have wreaked together would have been simply _breathtaking_ to watch.

But I suppose he wasn't as smart as he led people to think, otherwise he would have seen through our pitiful little show, and he wouldn't have wasted his genius on a silly little gambit that did nothing but take the life of a man so enmeshed in the power plays of the rich and famous that he couldn't bear to get out.

And maybe, just _maybe_, I wouldn't be as painfully bored as I am now. Keeping up a façade is so utterly tedious without the distraction and excitement of a new case. I daresay taking Ivan's place would be rather easy; after all, there are few people in the world possessing that level of genius, and even fewer wanting to fill those blood-red shoes.

Yes, I think I shall add that to my limited range of options. The life of a criminal might turn out to be rather fun.

That is, I shall think on that option _after_ I have recalled when (and why!) I began to refer to Alfred as _mine_.

**I… uh… hi, there.**

**So.**

**I… uh… decided to start another multichapter.**

**Please… Please don't hurt me.**

**I promise I will update the others sooner or later.**

**So…uh… just to clear things up a bit, I switched the roles 'cause I'm a total hipster like that and I'm too cool for your Arthur=Sherlock canon. So yes, Arthur (or England, or Britain) is now John Watson and Alfred (or America) is now Sherlock Holmes. HA.**

**I'm kind of mixing the movies with the BBC series with the original books so it's kind of murky and horrible and stuff. (I still want BBC Sherlock's coat. That is an **_**awesome**_** coat.)**

**OH GOD SO MUCH OOC WHYYYYYYY**

**Does anyone else like the idea of England and Russia teaming up to destroy/take over the world as much as I do?**


	3. Chapter 3

_August 23__rd__, 2010_

_221B Baker Street, London, England_

Arthur sits at the desk, casually spinning around in the office chair he… _liberated_ from Scotland Yard when Alfred's little policeman friends were off gawking at his body. It is a _nice_ chair, or it is now that he's taken some of the stuffing out and shot it full of holes, and it spins nicely, without any of those _horrendous_ noises the ones at the shops make.

Coming to a decision, he stops spinning and reaches for the cheap, disposable, _untraceable_ mobile on his desk. _If Alfred were alive, _he muses, dialling a number he knows off by heart,_ he'd have a conniption if he knew what I was doing. Or he'd try to kill me._ The phone takes an agonisingly long time to connect, and he's tempted to start spinning again, but he refrains from doing so on the grounds that any noise, no matter how soft, will probably be picked up, analysed and used to trace the call.

The person on the other end of the line _finally_ picks up, and Arthur smiles. _But then again, _he thinks, _it's Alfred's fault I'm so bored anyway._

'_Braginsky speaking.'_

"Hello. I heard you were in the market for criminal masterminds."


End file.
